


the masks we wear

by orthogonals



Series: merlin ficlets [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 13:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19854148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orthogonals/pseuds/orthogonals
Summary: The night before a battle, Merlin works. Arthur watches, and wonders.





	the masks we wear

The flames flicker softly, casting Merlin’s face into sharp relief—all lines and angles, straight nose and sharp cheekbones. In the shadow of the night, curtains drawn and hidden away from even the moon, Arthur allows himself to stare, wishes that his gaze could smooth the wrinkles between Merlin’s eyebrows and ease the tension in his shoulders. Wishes that he could stoop down beside Merlin, down where he sat with sword and cloth motionless in his grasp, and rub away the worry etched in his posture. Wishes. 

Merlin’s eyes flicker to meet Arthur’s. His expression clears, and he tilts his head away, resumes attacking Arthur’s blade with renewed fervor. Arthur watches unabashedly, sees Merlin’s eyes focus with an intensity that speaks of pain and courage, strength and secrets. Briefly, he contemplates questioning him, probing the source of his apprehension, letting words slice through the silence that stills and stagnates around them. But he knows Merlin even if he does not know himself, knows the special hurt Merlin carries for anything relating Arthur to peril. Besides, reassurances are fruitless; they both understand this far too well, feel it in close calls and dead bodies and lost friends. So Arthur does as he always has—observes, lets his gaze linger on the dark curls of hair sweat-plastered on Merlin’s neck, the flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks, the soft curve of his lip as he takes it between his teeth. 

And Merlin, to his credit, plays his part well. Pretends Arthur isn’t throwing himself headfirst, yet again, into a battle with zero to none odds and brandishing his life like a shield, a sword. Pretends he won’t—in an instant—toss himself bodily between any danger that dares come for Arthur, won’t use himself as a wall of blood and flesh to stop any arrow, any blade. Pretends that he doesn’t notice Arthur, peering at him from where he’s sat at his desk with a look too long and eyes too soft. Pretends.

Arthur wishes and wants, thinks of citadels without the sieges, victory without war, Kings without fetters— without the need of a Queen and a family and an heir. Merlin pretends, draws his glass walls in tight, covers the pain that seeps, traitorous, from his pores, averts his gaze to spare Arthur the magic— love or otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](https://orthogonals.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
